


Pull of the Abyss

by Miri1984



Series: The Blight and How It Mucked Us Up [5]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Awakenings
Genre: Gen, M/M, sequel to blood wound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miri1984/pseuds/Miri1984
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alim Surana, reunited with Zevran after the events of Blood Wound, is forced to go searching for Morrigan and the Old God Baby. Warden pressure forces Anders into contemplating the unthinkable in the absence of his Commander. Set during the events of Witch Hunt, pre-Dragon Age II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I think you're just being rude

**Author's Note:**

> OH HI. This fic was started very shortly after I finished Blood Wound and I ran out of steam after three chapters, possibly annoying/alienating a few of my readers on ff.net who wanted to see the rest of it. Looks like I've finally gotten the inspiration back to continue it. 
> 
> There will be a posting schedule and a chapter buffer in an attempt by me to actually do this with some sort of plan. Look for updates Monday and Thursday afternoons (Australian Time, which is late Sunday and Wednesday night, US). 
> 
> So sorry about the delay for anyone who was waiting on this! The first three chapters have already been posted over at ff.net, but I'm going to start the schedule any way. If you're desperate and want to read ahead (for the first three chapters at least) go on over to my profile which is also Miri1984.
> 
> Please enjoy, and as always, kudos and comments are VERY WELCOME.

Alim supposed he might quite like Antiva, if he ever got to see any of it. Within a week of arriving in Antiva city he had ostensibly been taken on a tour of the city, been to visit no fewer than twenty separate nobles, seen the queen, the princes, the city guard and the mage tower (that had been fun!) but he had not seen a single elf who wasn’t a servant, or had the opportunity to hire any assassins _at all._

The palace had tried to assign him bodyguards but Alim had sent them back with a _diplomatically_ worded note saying that templars weren’t his favourite people to have standing outside his bedroom door at night (in any case, Alistair had assigned him two guards of his own that were perfectly capable of smiting him if he got himself possessed). Since then his relationship with the other nobles had been… less than cordial.

His duties seemed mainly to ask people for money. The Blight had left Ferelden dangerously short on funds, and Alistair’s list (or his wife’s list, if Alim was going to be more honest) of things he’d like the Antivans to give him was fairly long. The Antivans seemed delighted to find different ways to say no to his requests. 

He was very very close to slitting his wrists and calling down a rage demon to destroy them all. Not that he would, of course. He was good these days. Well behaved. Hardly ever tempted. Mostly never. 

Today it was a garden party. Naturally. Alim pulled at the high collar on his doublet, sweating in the stifling summer heat, and wondered how the Antivan ladies stood it. Their gowns were less elaborate than some of the things he’d seen Ferelden noblewomen wear, but there were way too many layers. 

Vincentio DiCiantis was approaching him and Alim put on his best diplomatic face, smiling as he sipped at the cold white wine they had been decent enough to provide for the occasion. DiCiantis and he had had an unfortunate incident on Alim’s first day, when he’d been foolish enough to be talked into using some of his rudimentary Antivan at a trade negotiation.

It turned out that a lot of the phrases Zev had taught him were more colourful than most Antivan nobility used. In public at least. 

“DiCiantis,” he said, inclining his head. “A pleasure.”

“Indeed, I am hoping it will be so Councillor Surana.”

Alim’s eyes narrowed. DiCiantis was a handsome man, in his way, greying at his temples, with a neatly trimmed beard that hid what Alim suspected was a weak jaw, but he was arrogant and irritating and Alim’s misstep had been largely met with amusement from the Prince and his advisors. “Pay no attention to him,” Cassimo had said, waved a jeweled hand, “he does it because he is not noble and wishes to be. He pretends offense when there is none.”

Alim wasn’t too sure this was the case. He privately believed Prince Cassimo was an idiot and DiCiantis controlled far more of the city and its revenues than ten generations of Antivan royalty had done, but the forms had to be obeyed, no matter how he might chafe at them. 

DiCiantis had maneuvered them into a corner that was shielded from the rest of the party, large cyprus trees and hedges surrounding sweet smelling honeysuckle bushes — so strong they were almost cloying. Alim’s fingers twitched as he suddenly realised his Ferelden bodyguards were nowhere to be seen.

“I was actually hoping to have a word,”Alim said, tentatively touching at the fade with his senses. It had been a few weeks since he’d used his magic. Not since working to heal the wounded at Amaranthine and the Vigil after the darkspawn battle. He pulled a small amount of rejuvenation into himself, letting it tingle through his senses and sharpen his awareness. “To make another apology for…”

DiCiantis waved a hand irritably. “Do not concern yourself with your failure of etiquette,” he said, and his words were clipped and harsh. “I know you meant well. It is not your fault you were taught Antivan by a gutter-elf whoreson with no grace.”

Alim blinked. “You’ve met Zevran then?” he said.

“It’s hard to imagine any elf able to master the intricacies of court Antivan,” DiCiantis went on. Alim straightened and swallowed.

“Oh, now, really I think you’re just being rude….”

 _“Rude_ is sending a common elf-mage to our proud city and expecting him to have any influence with the   Prince or the merchants,” DiCiantis stepped closer and Alim resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _“Rude_ is a Ferelden bastard pretender thinking he can claim tribute for doing nothing more than waving a sword at an archdemon…”

“Actually _I_ was the one who did that…”

 _“Rude_ is….” whatever DiCiantis was about to say next was cut off by a gurgle and a thump from directly behind him. Blinking, Alim stretched up on tiptoe to look over the merchant’s shoulder, to see a small elf man crumpled in a heap on the ground, blood pooling from a slashed throat.

“My dear DiCiantis,” a sibilant voice came from the hooded figure who had, Alim presumed, been the one to slit the throat of the would-be assassin, “rude is attempting to assassinate a foreign dignity with,” the figure nudged the recently-become-corpse with one toe, “unskilled labour.”

“Zevran Aranai,” Alim said. “About time you bloody showed up.”

The figure pushed back his hood to reveal a familiar and beloved face. His cheeks were a little hollower than Alim remembered, and there were circles under his eyes and there even a few silver streaks in the golden hair, but the smile was the same, and Alim was close to icing DiCiantis to the spot so he could properly chastise the man for his long absence.

“My apologies, dear warden. I was… detained.”

“Yes, well, we’ll talk about that later. In the meantime I think DiCiantis here had something to say about giving funds to Ferelden in order to aid in its reconstruction? We _did_ stop the blight.” Alim folded his hands over his chest and tapped one foot.

DiCiantis laughed. “You truly believe I would send only one assassin? Ferelden _knife eared pig_ I am not so stupid.”

Zevran was idly cleaning the blood off his blade. “Oh, my dear fellow, how remiss of me. There were two others in your chambers — I trust your maids will be able to deal with the bloodstains on your carpet. And the archer on the roof has met with an unfortunate accident — an over enthusiastic gargoyle. Through the head.” DiCiantis’ smile froze on his face. “And you’ll be happy to hear that the crows have refused this contract twice before now, to have pursued it despite their injunction against harming the warden — the Hero of Ferelden, Arl of Amaranthine and personal friend of the First Warden — well this will not down well with them, I think? Although I _have_ saved them the trouble of dealing with your non-guild hirelings. Unless there were more? Ah, I see from your face there were not. Not to worry. I have informed the Crows of your little operation, anonymously of course, and I suspect a contract on your own life will be rapidly forthcoming.”

“They will catch up with you as surely as I, Zevran,” DiCiantis said, but he was backing away now. 

“Oh believe me, my dear DiCiantis, they already have. A mutually unpleasant experience to be sure, although so far it has resulted in more crow corpses than Zevran shaped ones.”

“Go away DiCiantis,” Alim said. “And think about writing a letter of credit to Alistair. Perhaps he can offer you a safe haven from the Crows in Denerim. There are a few buildings that aren’t piles of rubble there. You might like it.”

DiCiantis opened his mouth to reply, but Zevran shoved him back towards the party. DiCiantis looked like he was going to hit the elf for a moment, but Alim chose that moment to let his hands light up with lightning and he wisely changed his mind.

Once the merchant was gone, they were alone. Well, alone apart from rapidly cooling corpse on the ground in front of them. 

“Should I burn that?” Alim said. 

Zevran tutted. “By no means, dear warden. This is Antiva. Corpses are commonplace.”

“You won’t…” Alim took a step closer… “get in trouble for it?”

Zevran smiled, but there was a definite edge to it. “I defended you from an assassin, amora, and you quibble about corpses?”

“I just…”

“Come now, I had anticipated a more pleasant reunion.”

“You stood me up.”

“I was being interrogated by crows at the time. Some rather interesting scars…”

“Ever heard of writing a letter?”

“Any correspondence I sent would surely have given away my location, not to mention putting you in danger….”

“I’ve been in Antiva for two sodding _weeks…”_

“I’ve been attempting to stop you from being assassinated!”

They had been inching closer to each other with every word, and with the last shout Alim reached out a hand (still crackling with lightning) and grabbed Zevran’s chin. 

“Ouch, amora that…”

Alim kissed him. Very thoroughly, sinking in the feel of familiar lips, hands on his back, a familiar body that was nonetheless a little leaner than he recalled and it felt so, so good that he almost forgot that he was _extremely cross_ with the elf he was currently snogging and bit him.

“Alim you are vexed with me,” Zevran said, touching the spot of blood that bloomed  although his voice was breathless and his eyes were shining.

“You think?” Alim said, then shot his erstwhile lover with a sleep spell and enhanced his strength to catch the elf when he fell.

“Councillor!” one of the Prince’s lackey’s approached him as he walked through the garden back towards his carriage with an unconscious Zevran slung over his shoulder. 

“Busy, sorry mate,” Alim said. “Tell your King I quit, will you?”


	2. You could perform for children...

“If you’re not Orlesian and taking over, go away.”

“I love you too, Commander.”

“Sigrun.” Anders sighed and rubbed his face. “I thought you and Oghren were training.”

“He’s gone to the gate to meet the Orlesians you’re so keen on,” the casteless Legionnaire was leaning against the doorframe. “Nate’s with him, you know, to look poncy. He does that very well doesn’t he?”

“I think it’s the nose,” Anders said, getting up from behind the desk that had never felt right.

Sigrun grinned. “And the legs. They go on forever don’t they?”

“It’s a human thing.”

Sigrun eyed him curiously. “Do yours do the same then? I never get to see under those robes.”

Anders blinked. “Sigrun you’re either being extremely dirty, which gets my approval by the way, or deliciously naive.”

“Pick whichever one makes you like me more.” Her eyes were twinkling and he laughed for a second. Sigrun turned to the door. 

“Wait a moment,” he said. “Are there any mages?”

“With the Orlesians? No. Sorry boss.”

 _Damn._ “Templars?”

“Also a no, unless they’ve started with the stealthy types. No, they’re just Orlesians. A lot of them. And there’s a kid too — cute little tyke.”

 _At least that’s something._ They weren’t planning on shipping him to the circle straight away then. “Oh well. Time to hand over power.” He made his way to the door, but Sigrun’s small, strong hand stopped him.

“Be careful ok? I didn’t like the look of them.”

He grinned and ruffled her hair, which earned him a swat on the wrist that _stung_. “Of course you didn’t. They’re _Orlesian.”_

Privately, as he made his way through the courtyard to see the contingent who were currently talking with Nathaniel, he had to agree with Sigrun’s assessment. The Orlesian wardens were a grim lot, not surprising considering they’d lost a good deal of their brethren with the architect’s attack on the Vigil. The woman — Leonie Caron, he’d been told her name was — looked at the damaged walls and remaining rubble disdainfully, arms crossed over her chestplate, severe, lined face disapproving and cold. There was a man next to her with a truly magnificent mustache, and clinging to his leg was a boy of about six. Anders frowned down at the child — it was hardly the place for them, but then he wasn’t one to judge. His experiences with children were confined to attempting to control a class of seven year olds in the Tower, a task he’d only achieved by making lightning animals and having them periodically shock the students.

Irving hadn’t been too pleased with him for that one. 

“Commander Caron,” Anders said, holding out a hand for her to shake, which she did so, nearly breaking his bones with the firmness of her grip. “It’s truly a pleasure to have you here.”

She nodded. “Anders, I presume?”

“Acting Commander, yes,” Anders said, twisting his lips.

“It was my understanding that Commander Surana gave you full command of the garrison here,” Caron said. Her accent was thick, but not impossible to understand. Anders briefly considered switching to Orlesian to make things easier for her, but changed his mind. No need to give away _all_ his talents at their first meeting.

“He tried, yes,” Anders said. “But I think he wasn’t fully aware of the implications of leaving a former apostate in charge of an Arling,” _or just delighted in making my life unpleasant._ “Hence my letter to you and the first warden.”

“You show remarkable restraint,” Caron said. “Most mages would have taken advantage of their freedom by now.”

 _Most mages,_ he noted. _This could be a problem._

He didn’t point out that being a warden wasn’t exactly freedom. And that being in command was pretty much his worst nightmare ever.

“I also understand that Commander Surana had some… _interesting_ recruits.”

Anders nodded and indicated that they should follow him back into the main hall. “Indeed. Justice is… ah… waiting for us in the main hall. Sigrun, Oghren and Nathaniel you’ve already met. There was a Dalish Elf, but she disappeared in the attack on the Vigil — she never managed to take the joining, although I know that Alim promised it to her should she want to. I doubt she’ll be back, however, she had… other things on her mind before the battle.”

“Justice is a possessed corpse?” Caron said. 

“Ah… yes. Fade spirit, though. Not a demon. It wasn’t his fault he was pulled through the veil after the battle with the…”

Caron waved a hand. “I read the reports, warden.”

“He’s a good warden. A good man.”

“I don’t doubt you think so. But I must question the judgement of a mage Commander consorting with fade spirits. We do not forbid blood magic in the order…”

“There was no blood magic involved!” Anders said quickly. “Well, no blood magic from _us_ any way. The Baroness…”

“As I already said,” Caron stopped just before the entrance to the hall. “We do not forbid blood magic. But it does not mean we approve of it. I wish to speak with this fade spirit. If it seems he is a threat I am afraid he will have to be…”

“Justice is a friend,” Anders was surprised to hear Nathaniel’s voice. “And he saved Amaranthine from the threat of the Mother. You know that if you have read the reports, Commander Caron.”

“You are new to the wardens,” Caron said. “All of you are. The situation in Ferelden is unique, and unprecedented. You have all done the best with what you were given, and your efforts are appreciated. But you must acknowledge that power needs to be handled by those of us with experience.”

Anders gave Nathaniel a look. “That’s why we asked you to come, Commander,” he said. She nodded, a small smile gracing her face. It was a nice enough face, really, Anders thought, but she was easily in her forties, and probably close to her Calling. Experience was what they needed here, no matter that some of Loghain’s stalwart supporters, Anora included, were aghast at having an Orlesian in command.

They didn’t understand. Wardens first. It was always wardens first to these people, something that was making Anders increasingly uncomfortable.

He didn’t feel like that. There were so many other things he had to be before he was a warden. Anders, naturally. A mage. A man.

_If only I could be free as well._

“This way, Commander,” Nathaniel steered the woman into the hall, the other Orlesians following and Anders shared a glance with Oghren. 

“You sure about this, sparklefingers?” the dwarf asked him.

Anders took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’ve never been sure of anything much, Oghren,” he said. “So obviously I’m not the best person to be in charge here.”

“I don’t know, at least you’re Ferelden.”

“Says the former warrior caste from Orzammar.”

“Hey, Orzammar is in Ferelden, you know.”

“Underneath you mean. I don’t think it counts.”

“I think Alim knew what he was doing when he passed the wardens to you, Anders,” Oghren said, suddenly serious. “I think he wanted to protect you. And I think you might have made that a lot more difficult by handing them over to that woman.”

Anders swallowed. “Well, I can always run away again if things get bad. My specialty, you know.”

“Justice wouldn’t like that.”

“Maybe Justice can come too.”

“Ha! You and the zombie. Like a traveling circus. You could perform for children.”

“Frighten them, you mean.”

“That too,” Oghren sighed and tugged on his beard. “You’re all right, for a skirt wearing freak. I don’t want to see you dragged off to the templars again.”

“Oh, it won’t come to that, stink bag. I promise.”

The dwarf threw back his head and laughed. “Oghren’s got your back, Anders. Just remember that.”

“That’s surprisingly reassuring. Come on, let’s go and explain away our corpse.”


	3. It would be difficult to be much deader.

The chambers they’d given him at the palace were opulent and oppressive, and although Alim was keen to get out of there as soon as was humanly possible, he wasn’t going to go until he was sure Zevran was well. He’d stripped the Antivan’s leathers from his body, noting new scars and fresh injuries that had him shaking by the time he’d finished. A quick warning to his templar bodyguards that he would have to use healing magic and a long two hours of work later, Zevran had fallen into a deep, peaceful slumber. Alim had washed and changed into more practical clothing, packing his belongings for a trip he suspected he would be making _not_ in his official capacity as Ferelden ambassador to Antiva, then sat and waited for Zevran to wake. 

“Oh….” the elf in question rolled over on the ridiculous four poster bed. “ _Soffio di Dio_ , Alim what did you do to me?”

Alim let out a breath, then forced a smile. “Knocked you out. Then healed you. How often did you manage to get those wounds seen to?”

“I did… not.”

“At all. Naturally. I’m surprised you could stand up long enough to slit that elf’s throat. Seriously.”

“Ah… but killing comes naturally. It invigorates the blood, as they say.”

“Not of the people you kill.”

“That is rather the point of being an assassin, yes.” Zevran eyed him. “So you healed me while I was sleeping, yes?”

“Most of what you’re suffering from now is exhaustion, you idiot. But yes. There was a slight infection in the wound on your right side, but the others are all all right. They’ll scar though.”

“Tut. And I do so wish to stay beautiful.”

Alim’s hands twitched. “Zevran, you’re a complete fool.”

He smiled. “But you love me anyway, no?”

Alim couldn’t help it. He leaned forward and kissed Zevran, and the assassin, after a suitable interval, chuckled against his lips. “I missed you, my warden.”

“Not half as much as I missed you, I’m sure,” Alim said. 

“You underestimate the full horror of Crow interrogations.”

“Yeah, well, for me there were broodmothers.”

Zevran made a face. “Broodmothers? Like the one….”

“Worse. And there were lots of them. One of them _talked.”_

“You are jesting with me.”

“I can take you back to Amaranthine and you can interrogate the other wardens, Zevran. Although, not in a… in a _crow_ way, I quite liked them in the end.”

“So you found a new group of companions. I suppose you no longer have need of one such as myself.”

Alim looked at him. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were deeper, his ribs showed clearly under the smooth skin of his chest. As he had worked on healing the assassin, his fingers had traced new scars and old, together with the whorls of his tattoo, familiar yet strange, too thin, too fragile.

“How many times have I called you an idiot in this conversation? Because I think I’m getting close to the limit.”

“One can never be called an idiot too many times amora.”

Alim leaned forward and kissed him, hard. Zevran’s hand came up and tangled in his hair, pulling it loose from its tie and letting his fingers work down to Alim’s neck. “I missed you, you insufferable prat,” Alim said, pulling back just far enough so that his lips continued to touch Zevran’s. “I wanted to tell the wardens to stuff it and run back here and turn over every stone in Antiva until I found you, and it turns out you were trying to… _what_ exactly?”

Zevran’s hands slid down Alim’s arms to his waist, which he gripped firmly. “Do you really wish to discuss this now?”

“Oh yes.”

“I do not.”

“Well I’m the one who can send you to sleep again, so why don’t you start talking?”

Zevran chuckled, and the sound reverberated through Alim pleasantly. So pleasantly he shut his eyes and smiled, which was, of course, a mistake. Zevran may have been tired and hungry and injured, but he was as lithe and strong as ever, and he deftly flipped Alim onto his back, crouching over him and pinning Alim’s hips beneath his own, straddling him and grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear.

Not that Alim had any great problem with being trapped. He just wished he was a little less clothed. “Well now, dear heart,” Zevran said, leaning forward and tickling the shell of one of Alim’s ears with his breath and his tongue. “I came in search of my former employer….”

“Nuncio?”

Zevran sat back, brow raised in surprise. “How do you know of Nuncio?”

“I interrogated a crow, back at the Vigil.”

“And he gave you a _name?”_

Alim started to grin, then looked down at his hand, absently rubbing the scar that was normally covered by a glove, covering it with his other hand so that Zevran could not see it. “I was very persuasive.”

Zevran frowned. “Nuncio was not my employer. Nuncio is a… lackey of his. A trained mabari. Nothing more.”

“My source said he was the one they had chasing you.”

“Did they? Well. No matter. Nuncio will be easy enough to deal with when the time comes.”

“So you found him? The one who…” _led you to kill the only woman you’d ever loved._

Zevran nodded. “Well. Let us just say that he found me first. It was not pleasant.”

“How did you escape?”

Zevran spread his hands. “My dear warden, you wound me. He did not capture me, merely found me.”

“He is dead then?”

“Most certainly. It would be difficult to be much deader.”

“Well, that’s something.”

Zevran smiled and let his hands roam up Alim’s torso. “Indeed.”

“So why didn’t you come and find me after you… dealt with him?” Alim said. “I was hardly making my location a secret.”

Zevran’s hands paused. “There were contracts against you. Adamo made that much clear before he died. I had to… stop them.”

“You didn’t manage it,” Alim said. “The nobles of Amaranthine hired crows to kill me. That’s where I got Nuncio’s name from.”

Zevran tutted and sat back. “Indeed. I was attempting to discover the exact names of those who continued to take out contracts against you. Imagine my surprise when I found it was not necessarily because of your association with me that they continued to pursue such an unprofitable contract.”

Alim smiled. “Not everything is to do with you, Zevran.”

“Ah, no. Much as it pains my ego to admit it. There were… others behind these contracts. The nobles in Amaranthine were one such group, but the other was more worrying.”

Alim cocked an eyebrow. “Oh? You mean DiCiantis?”

Zevran waved a hand. “Pish. DiCiantis is a fool. A very wealthy one, but a fool nonetheless. He simply dislikes elves. No, the people behind the contract on you are part of the Chantry. I have not been able to discover their exact names, but I do know that the Crows have declined to take any more money from them. Obviously they believe the Chantry is being over-zealous.”

“I thought Antivans were very devout?”

“Right up until the point where our lives are threatened.”

“Not big on spending eternity at the side of the maker?”

“Not if we can spend many decades at the side of something more pleasurable,” Zevran leaned forward until his lips were an inch from Alim’s. Alim, who knew this game (and was relishing learning all the moves again) simply smirked at him, placing his palms on the small of Zevran’s back and sending a bolt of healing energy through them.

Zevran fought it for a few seconds, before leaning back and gasping in pleasure. “Ah, amora. I have missed you.”

“Missed _me,_ or just _this?”_

“Oh, both, Alim. _Both.”_

They didn’t talk much after that.


	4. The wardens are no place for pets

Anders would be the first to admit that he quite liked reading, and he’d always enjoyed the quiet studiousness of the library when he hadn’t been attempting to find a way out of the tower, but reading about magic and ways to apply it had at least been _interesting_ and relevant to his own condition.

As defacto Arl of Sodding Amaranthine reading involved figures and facts and names and calculations that, while he was perfectly able to do them, bored him _pantsless._

What he wouldn’t give for some pantslessness to detract from the boredom right now. He had to concentrate, if he could just get through it, then he could hand the whole sodding lot over to Caron and not have to think about it any more.

Then he could get to work on his healthy paranoia and guilt instead.

The scratching of his quill on parchment was loud enough in the mostly silent office that he didn’t hear the noises at first. Not until there was a streak of orange and white fur and a delighted giggle did Anders realise he wasn’t alone.

“Pounce what…?”

A small, dark head bobbed along in front of the desk, chasing after the cat who had grown faster than Anders thought it was possible in the weeks since Alim’s departure. He was now big enough and strong enough to fight off any other cats that dared to encroach on his territory, and he considered all of the keep and to be honest, most of Amaranthine as his territory.

Anders waved a hand and the boy was gently slowed to a stop by a soft forcefield. He looked up, eyes wide, and spewed a long string of Orlesian that Anders could barely catch.

“Hold up, kid,” he said. It was the child that had accompanied the Orlesian wardens. Anders was ninety nine percent sure he was running around the keep unaccompanied without the sanction of whoever his parents were. 

The child clasped his hands in front of him and _bowed._ It was surreal.

“I am sorry Messare Mage,” he said, piping voice perfectly intoning Ferelden with a better accent than Anders had managed at twelve, lisping uncertainly in Anderfel to the other apprentices at the tower. 

“I’m pretty sure you’re not meant to be here,” he said.

“No messare. No. Non, Papa and Auntie Leonie are busy with the seneschal they said I could play…”

“Here?”

The enormous dark eyes dropped to the ground. Anders was pretty sure it was against the rules of the chantry to be that cute when you were in trouble. He was also pretty sure he’d pulled all of the same tricks on the templars that this kid was playing on him when he was that age.

“Non, messare.”

Anders sighed. There wasn’t much more of the paperwork to do and he needed a break in any case, so he shrugged. “Pounce shouldn’t have been encouraging you,” he said. As if he knew he was being talked about, and as if he knew how much Anders wanted distracting from his current task, the cat leapt up onto the desk, mussing up papers and rubbing his face against Anders’. Anders couldn’t help but smile at that, even as he tutted under his breath, lifting the animal to his shoulder and standing up. “Come on,” he said to the boy. “Let’s find your papa.”

“You won’t tell them will you?”

“No, ghastling,” he said. “I’m not a snitch. But it’s dangerous here, not all the wardens are as nice as I am.”

“What’s your name?”

“Anders. What’s yours?”

“Jacques.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Jacques.”

“Are you a mage?”

“What gave it away?”

“The magic.”

Anders tried not to smile and nodded seriously. “Ah yes. I’ll have to watch that. Are you a child?”

“No, I’m just short.”

Anders chuckled at that. “Okay. Who is your papa?”

“Papa is a Grey Warden.”

“And mama?” 

The child’s eyes slipped away from Anders’ and he could infer from that that Mama was no longer in the picture. The boy’s voice was small as he replied. “Papa had to take me with him when Mama died in the Blight.”

“Which of the Grey Wardens is he?” Anders could remember this from the tower, the patient winding way children walked to get to the information you wanted. He could remember not wanting people to dwell on what he’d lost, either, so he let the mention of the kid’s mother pass by without comment.

“Stroud,” Jacques said. 

“Moustached fellow, kind of stern looking?”

“That’s him!”

Anders held out a hand and stopped Jacques, kneeling down and nodding. “The one over there?”

Caron and the Grey Warden in question were talking with Varel in the throne room, Nathaniel close by with his arms crossed over his chest. “That’s papa! But he doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s talking to Auntie Leonie.”

“I bet Auntie Leonie doesn’t like it much either,” Anders said, but when he looked up again both Caron and Stroud were looking in his direction. Caron frowned deeply, as did Stroud, and Stroud nodded to her and strode towards them. 

“Oh,” Jacques said softly.

“Don’t worry, ghastling, you won’t get in trouble.”

 _“Où étiez-vous? Est-ce que ce mage vous blessé? Ne pas se promener comme ça!”_ Stroud didn’t hold back and Jacques pressed a little closer to Anders’ leg. Anders didn’t think the man was necessarily a terror for the child, just worried, and perhaps not used to being a solo parent.

“He’s been with me, it’s all right, Ser,” Anders said. “My cat rounded him up, and distracted him from what he was supposed to be doing, I’m sorry. Pounce is a bit of a terror in that regard.”

Stroud eyed the animal with suspicion. “The wardens are no place for pets, Messere,” he said. 

Pounce, sensing he was being talked about, poked his head around Anders’ and flicked his tail ominously. 

“Not really the place for children either, I would have thought,” Anders said, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

Stroud cocked a finger and Jacques went to him. Stroud put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but kindly. 

 _“Te ne pouvez pas aller comme ça et faire papa inquiétude, Jacques,”_ he said, and Anders relaxed a little at the obvious affection in his voice.

“It’s hard to keep track of them sometimes,” he said. 

“You have children?” Stroud didn’t bother to hide the contempt from his voice there and Anders stifled a sigh.

“No, but I taught a lot of them. In the tower.”

Understanding dawned and Stroud nodded. “I’ll keep him closer,” he said. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Anders asked, “why is he here? It’s…” _dangerous. Wet. Cold. Boring. All of the above._

“We could not leave him in Orlais without his mother.”

“Oghren has a daughter, she’s younger than Jacques here but he’s pretty good with children, funnily enough. And Sigrun adores them, although he might end up learning a few interesting skills if he spends much time with her. But I wouldn’t let him wander around the barracks some of the common soldiers are a little less friendly.”

Stroud’s expression softened even further and Anders nodded. He was a pain with a stick up his arse no doubt, but he cared about his kid. 

“Can I come back and play with Pounce again?” Jacques said, tugging on the edge of Anders’ robe. Pounce flicked his tail and made a short chirrup of a meow that made Anders roll his eyes. “See he _likes_ me.”

“If your papa lets you,” Anders said. 

“I don’t want to distract you from your work, mage,” Stroud said.

“Hey, I’m busy palming that work off to your Commander, soon I’ll have very little to do except mix potions and groom my feathers. He’s welcome. If you’ll let him.”

Stroud hesitated. Anders couldn’t pretend he didn’t know the gamut of emotions going through him at the suggestion. He was a warden, but wardens came from Thedas, and people in Thedas would sooner trust a rampaging bearskein rather than a mage, even if he was a healer, a fellow warden, a _human being._

“Who’s the scary man?” Jacques said then, and Anders stopped himself from saying “it’s me” when he recognised the subtle combination of herbs, metal, magic and decay that meant Justice was nearby.

“Anders,” Justice boomed, and Jacques shrank back against his father, whose hand found the boy’s shoulder again. “I wish to have words with you.”

“Joy,” Anders said, then winked at Jacques. “Don’t worry, he’s not as frightening as he looks.”

“That remains to be seen, mage,” Stroud said, darkly. “Commander Caron wants you to know that she’ll send someone for the last of the paperwork in two hours.”

Anders gritted his teeth. He could manage it, but only if Justice didn’t take up too much time with whatever rant he had ready for them today. “Fine, fine,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, brother Stroud?”

Stroud’s eyes narrowed a little at the epithet, but he nodded. “Of course, brother Anders.”


	5. He'll fit right in there from what I've heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh I was late posting this because DA:I came out for me yesterday, sorry. Won't happen again. ALSO DA:I *vibrates with excitement*

“Are you certain you will not be in trouble with dear Alistair for abandoning your post thus?” Zevran asked as they were finished the preparations for the trip back to Amaranthine.

“Alistair knew full well the only reason I took this position was to find you,” Alim said. “He has a replacement standing by. I sent a letter to him while you were asleep yesterday.”

“Should you not wait for your replacement to get here?”

“What, you don’t _want_ to leave? I thought you wanted to give me the tour of Antiva, show me the sights, buy me some leather…”

Zevran put one long finger on Alim’s lips, and he kissed it, smiling, trying to avoid the seriousness in those eyes. This was familiar. Too familiar. One of them trying their best to distract the other from something that was definitely going to be unpleasant.

“We were busy last night, amora.” Alim opened his mouth and drew Zev’s finger in, one eyebrow raising slightly. Zev’s lips twitched, and he took a moment to curl the finger, touching the insides of Alim’s mouth where he could taste new callouses and lines of scars, before withdrawing it. “Most pleasantly, I will admit, but there are serious matters to discuss.”

Alim pouted, then sat back on his trunk, folding his arms over his chest and crossing booted feet in front of him.

“Okay then.”

“The contracts against you…”

“Were taken out by the chantry. You said. That’s hardly surprising, given the wardens are independent and have too much power as it is and they don’t like mages at the best of times…”

“Amora, you know I do not require you to be honest with me,” Zevran knelt in front of him, placing his hands on Alim’s shoulders. “But you do not tell me everything. And while you are better at lying than Alistair, you are very, _very_ bad at lying to me.”

Alim pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. Zevran ran his hands down Alim’s left arm, reaching his palm and turning it upwards. One of his fingers, hot against scar tissue, ran over the raised, still red flesh. “I know every inch of you. I memorised it with my lips and with my hands. Did you think I would not notice?”

Alim’s fingers twitched. He wanted to close the hand, hide the evidence, but he didn’t.

“It was only twice,” he said. Zevran’s eyebrow raised. “I saved a man’s life. I saved the Arling. I did what I was _required_ to do with the tools I had at my disposal.” He did close his fist then, gripping Zevran’s hand tightly. “What would you have wanted me to do, Zev? Let Anders die? Let the Mother set her childers loose on Ferelden, started a second darkspawn invasion worse than any blight? _Was I supposed to let them die?”_

“Shhh,” Zevran leaned forward and cupped Alim’s head against his chest. “No. No I do not mean to judge you. These things are not… I am not afraid of you, Alim.”

If Zev was trying to reassure him, it had the opposite effect. Alim felt his lip curl. “Oh, maybe you should be.” He pulled his hand away and stood up, stalking to the other side of the opulent chamber. The sheets were still mussed, the air smelt of elf root and spindle weed and magic from the effort it had taken him to heal Zevran the night before.

“If the Chantry knows you use blood magic, dear heart, then you know why the contracts will not stop. That the Crows have refused them does not mean there are others who will not.”

“The Chantry couldn’t possibly know,” Alim said. “The only people who do know are my wardens. _My_ wardens, Zev.”

“Did you not say one of them was a Howe?”

“I trust Nathaniel. He understands what it means to be a warden.”

“What of the other mage — he is obsessed with his own freedom, perhaps he believes that…”

“Anders. I don’t. He wouldn’t. He’s my _friend_ Zev. And even if he doesn’t approve of Blood Magic he would die rather than give a mage to the Chantry.”

“In my experience people say they would rather die when they would really rather not,” Zev said quietly.

Alim gritted his teeth. “I don’t see why we need to look for another reason why the Chantry wants me dead, Zev. I’m a mage, I’m in a position of power, I’m protected. If they truly believed I was a blood mage they’d send another Cullen after me, unless they’ve finally come to their senses and worked out that only ends badly for the Cullens.”

“I have heard he has a new position in Kirkwall,” Zev said mildly.

Alim snorted. “Oh well, he’ll fit right in _there_ from what I’ve heard.” He pressed his palms into his eyes, feeling the roughness of the left one, hearing the echoes of old whispers.

“We killed the demon,” he said softly. “The one who answered the call of the blood. Justice skewered it with his fade sword. I’m safe, Zev, you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

He smelled of leather and sweat and comfort, and his arms were strong as they came around Alim’s waist. “I told you I do not fear you, uomo magico. I have lied to you many times, but not about this.”

Alim breathed in deep, then put his hands over Zev’s, squeezing them. “Good,” he said. “So. If the Chantry is continuing to take contracts out on my life, either we find a place where the Chantry cannot reach, or we find out which particular branch of the Chantry is so against me that they want me dead and persuade them that I’m actually fluffy and nice.”

“Or kill them,” Zev said, lips moving against the back of his neck.

“Killing them is another option.”

“You used not to be so violent, dearest.”

“I think it comes with age and maturity,” Alim said. 

“I hear Tevinter is very nice this time of year,” Zevran said. 

“I also hear they like slavery.”

“Par Vollen?”

“They sew mages lips shut.”

“Rivain!”

Alim turned his head and grinned at Zev. “You know I’m not going to run. I might be abandoning my post here in Antiva but Alistair still needs me. The wardens still need me, even if only as a figurehead. We need to find out who wants me dead and we need to find out why.”

Zev grinned. “Well then,” he pulled back and turned to the small pile of his belongings that sat near the bed. Ruffling through the leathers and the many, many daggers, he pulled out a parchment and waved it at Alim’s face. “I _might_ have a few leads.”


	6. You're my friend, Justice.

Justice had very little concept of privacy, or the need to speak about things like spirit possession and mage injustices away from the ears of people who say, didn’t like that sort of thing, but Anders would be the first to admit that of all the wardens, even Sigrun and Oghren, he felt most comfortable with the spirit.

Perhaps because, even in the tower, he had spent some of his happiest moments in the fade, exploring his power on his own terms. In the fade, he could forget there were templars watching his every move, and fade spirits and demons (aside from in the harrowing, any way) did not judge him for the fate of his birth.

Justice was a friend, and Anders was beginning to suspect he would need all of the friends he could get in the coming weeks.

“What’s up, Justice old buddy?” Anders asked him, once they were in his workshop. As the only active mage in the Amaranthine wardens, Anders had a lot of work to do that _didn’t_ involve going down into the deep roads, and for that he was grateful, but in the past weeks he’d let his herbalism slide somewhat. Something else Alim hadn’t really thought about when he’d left Anders in charge — it was difficult to do paperwork _and_ mix elf root potions for the miriad of injuries presented at his door pretty much every day.

He’d also set up a defacto clinic of sorts, for the commoners in the Arling (the nobles disdained it, preferring to rely on leeches and charlatans for their healing — something Anders didn’t mind at all).

He was busier than he’d ever been in his relatively short life, and he guessed that was all right as well, because when he wasn’t busy his feet itched and he felt nervous every time a guard looked his way. 

Not safe. Never safe.

“I believe that Commander Caron is untrustworthy, Anders,” Justice said. “Two of the wardens that accompanied her have close ties to the Chantry, one of them is a former templar.”

Anders wished he was surprised at that. “How do you know?”

“Kristoff knew them,” he said. “He had no reason to be distrustful of them, but given your misgivings and the letter that the Commander showed you from the Grand Cleric…”

“I’m still a warden, Justice,” Anders said, even though his gut churned at the news. “They need me here.”

“When the motivation is fear, I have learned that rationality has little to do with the actions of humans. Should they see you as a threat they will not hesitate to act, even should such an act disadvantage them in the long run.”

“Did they say anything to you?” Anders said. “About your… condition?”

“They spoke to me only briefly. There are no mage wardens with them who could confirm my status as a spirit and not a demon, however and I suspect Caron thinks me the latter.”

Justice’s lip curled at that, and Anders patted him on the arm in reassurance. “Nathaniel and the others will vouch for you, Justice. We’ll make sure you are protected.”

“It is not myself for which I am concerned.”

“We need to work on that self preservation instinct.”

He started clearing off a bench, then stopped, looking at the mess with a kind of weary despair. He needed to be finishing those reports. He needed to check his gear and arrange his room. He needed to write to Karl and Finn and check…

“Anders,” Justice said, interrupting his train of thought, “we have discussed your plans for the future and none of them include being taken back to the circle.”

“They won’t send me back to the circle,” Anders said, but as he moved to his bench and reached for his mortar and pestle, he could see his hand was shaking. “I’m a warden now.”

“You cannot help your fellow mages as a warden,” Justice continued. “You cannot help your friend.”

“I can help a lot of other people though.”

“I know you do not wish to return to the deep roads. If you take my offer we will be powerful enough to elude the templars. Powerful enough to go to Kirkwall. I hear there are many Ferelden refugees there now.”

“Justice I know you mean well but offering to possess me every couple of days is a little…” He swallowed. “Demon-y.”

Justice frowned at that. “I am sorry, Anders. I do not mean to make you afraid. But I fear there is limited time left.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kristoff’s body. It is deteriorating rapidly. I suspect it will not hold together for very long.”

Anders blinked. “Can’t you just. Um. Be a skeleton? Isn’t that how it works?”

Justice looked troubled. “Constant use of my fade abilities have taken their toll on both the internal and external structure of this vessel,” he said. “When I say it will not hold together, I mean it will burn itself to ashes. Soon. It is only by careful rationing of those abilities that I have been able to stay cohesive for this long.”

“I… I didn’t know that Justice.”

“The battle with the Mother, and my actions in ridding the warden Commander of Dolores, took a far greater toll on my abilities than I’d at first thought.”

“What will happen to you if Kristoff’s body disintegrates?” Anders asked, fascinated, without really wanting to be.

“I do not know,” Justice said. “All of my attempts to return to the fade have failed. You say there is no real way of taking me there, as I am not a mage and cannot sleep.”

Anders bit his lip. “We could… we could try the harrowing ritual, if you want. I mean you draw power from the fade all the time.”

“But I have no consciousness there,” Justice said. “And the harrowing ritual is meant only for mages. I assure you, Anders, I have looked into this. While I do not… relish the idea of being disembodied and I am uncertain of my fate should Kristoff’s body disintegrate, it does not bother me in the way that you think.”

“How do you think it bothers me?” Anders said.

“You do not wish me to die.”

“Well. No. You’re my friend, Justice.”

“And you are mine. But you have expressed a desire for more power. For freedom. For the chance to do more for your fellow mages. Our joining could do this and I am only certain that the joining will work while Kristoff’s body is whole. Without the physical touch, I do not believe I could travel into another body at will.”

Anders looked down at the pestle he held in his hands, suddenly unable to remember what task he had begun. His circle training rebelled against what Justice was asking, but the thought of doing without his friend, the thought of having power enough to make some sort of _difference_ instead of being forced to run, to hide, to compromise over and over again.

There was something very attractive about that.

“How much time do you have?” he asked.

“Months at the most,” Justice said. “Possibly only weeks.”

Anders swallowed. Time, they needed more of it, always. “The delegation from Orlais should decide who is going to stay and who is going to leave by the end of this seven night. I don’t think it would be a good idea to do anything before then. Caron has sharp eyes, and Stroud especially seems mistrustful of mages in general and me in particular.”

Justice looked at the door, as though he might see Stroud there. “Ironic, that he should be distrustful of mages when his own son is one.”

Anders blinked. “What?”

“Stroud’s child. Jacques. His connection to the fade is strong, can you not sense it?”

“Justice most mages don’t find out they are mages until they’re older than Jacques is. How on earth can you tell…”

“I am connected to the fade, Anders. As are you. I am astonished that you cannot discern who is a mage and who is not simply by talking to them.”

Anders took a deep breath. “Andraste save me _please_ don’t tell anyone else you can do that. If the templars found out they’d snatch you up in a heartbeat and put you out in front of all their search parties like a prize sodding mabari.”

“I believed that you all knew who was a mage and who was not.”

“No. Maker’s breath no. If we did then they’d kill us all at birth.”

Justice was silent for a long time, in that still way of his that until now Anders had found comforting. A friend. A solid presence. Someone to protect him.

“Anders this world is full of beauty, but I am not blind to the injustices. I cannot help the elves, they have made it clear that I am unwelcome among them. But I am unused to being without purpose. Now that the blight is ended, and now that this body is nearing the end of its usefulness — I … I wish to help.”

_Help me help Karl help Finn help all of them. Be truly free and not just mouth the words because you’re too afraid not too._

Anders swallowed. “I should find Stroud. If Jacques really is a mage he’s going to need protecting. He’s just lost his mother the last thing he needs is to be dragged off away from his father as well.”

“That is a noble thing to do, Anders.”

Anders gave a small, desperate laugh. “Maybe.” He put the mortar and pestle back on his work bench, absently ruffling Pounce’s fur as he slumbered on top of a basket of dried elf root, then turned to go. 

“I’ll think about it, Justice,” he said. “And if for… for whatever reason I can’t do what you ask, I’ll find a way to help you, all right?”

Justice inclined his head and Anders left. His hands were still shaking. 


	7. A few moments for an old friend.

Leliana received them hesitantly, seeming a little confused that they were even able to find her. “Zevran, I suppose I should have realised you would have connections enough to track me down,” she said, as she waved them inside. 

The apartment was modest, for Val Royeaux any way, which meant that it was bigger and better appointed than Alim’s bedchamber in the Vigil had been. Leliana looked out of place, however, or at least as much as she ever could, in simple hunting leathers, her hair, longer than it had been during the blight, tied back severely.

“Going somewhere?” Alim asked.

She smiled at him. “Actually yes, but I have a few moments for an old friend.”

“Special secret Orlesian spy stuff?” he asked as they entered, Zevran taking up a position near the door. Alim had always gotten on quite well with Leliana, but Zevran had never quite let go of his misgivings about the Orlesian bard. _She is too much like me,_ he would say. _And I definitely do not trust myself around you, my warden._

“I am working for the divine, Alim. She requested my presence, and we have… always been close. I heard you gave up your post as Commander of the Grey in Ferelden.”

“I’m on leave,” Alim said, sitting and smiling. 

She glanced at Zevran. “Are you touring? Might I suggest the butterfly house in Val Chevin, if you wish to see something truly remarkable. It is the talk of the town this season, I believe the Marquis de Serrault donated the glass for the…”

“Leliana much as I love hearing about Orlais and the ridiculous stuff they do with glass and insects, that’s not why we’re here.”

She took a deep breath, looking troubled, then nodded. “Can I offer you some refreshment at least? I cannot have you saying I am an inadequate host.”

“Cara donna,” Zevran said. “We will not be mentioning our visit here to any one at all, you do not need to worry about your reputation.”

Leliana smiled at Zevran, a twinkle in her eye. “But Zevran, I worry about my reputation with _you.”_

He chuckled, but the sound was rustier than Alim remembered. “It is far, far too late for that,” he said.

There was little point in delaying, and Alim found himself chafing to get out of the opulent decadence of Orlais. The stares of the elven servants and the proud set of the shoulders on the templars who walked the streets set his teeth on edge. The Chantry here was so much more present than it had been in Ferelden during the Blight. It should have made him feel safer, but all it did was remind him that he did not belong.

He took a breath. “Leliana we know you told the Chantry about Morrigan.”

She clasped her hands in front of her, not surprised. Resigned. “I am sorry, Alim. It was my duty.”

“Was it then the duty of the Chantry to attempt to kill the Warden Commander?” Zevran said tightly.

“I knew you would not let harm come to him,” Leliana said. 

“Why kill _me?”_ Alim said. “Morrigan has the baby. She made it perfectly clear she didn’t want me having anything to do with it.”

“He is a person, Alim, not an ‘it’,” Leliana said, sternly. Alim had not even known if the child had been successfully born, whether it was a boy or a girl, whether it was healthy or had sprung forth with wings and the taint, fully grown and breathing fire. He suspected he would have known if Morrigan had not survived, though. There had been magic enough, in that room before their march to Denerim, and he suspected a bond had been formed that could not easily be broken.

“Do you know where she is?” Alim said.

Leliana shook her head. “No I do not,” she said. “But I have heard rumours. She does not wish to be found, and you, warden, were always a far easier target.”

“So they’re trying to kill her?”

Leliana shook her head. “No. They wish control of the child.”

Alim felt an unexpected surge of anger at that. The chantry could _not_ have the baby. The chantry could not have _anything_ from him any longer, wasn’t that the whole point of being a warden?

“How would killing me give them that?”

Leliana snorted a little, then. “They are under the impression that you and Morrigan were more than friends, Alim. I did nothing to discourage them from that assumption.”

Alim glanced at Zevran, who was grinning. “Technically, my dear warden, you were much much more than friends.”

“Shut up,” Alim said. “So they think if they kill me Morrigan will come running and attempt to what… avenge me? They really don’t know Morrigan at _all_ do they.”

“I think you underestimate her affection for you, Alim,” Leliana said. 

“We got on all right,” Alim said grudgingly. “I killed her mother for her, she let me impregnate her so I wouldn’t die when I stabbed the archdemon. I guess that means something in this day and age. But there’s no way in the void she’d ever put my safety over hers. Or the child’s.” That thought, surprisingly, gave him a great deal of comfort.

“She would not need to,” Zevran said. “As our dear Leliana pointed out a short time ago, you already have someone who is charged with the safekeeping of your body and soul.”

Alim shot Zevran a resentful look. “And where exactly were you when six-titted monstrosities tried to eat me?”

“Six? Last time you told me there were eight!”

Leliana’s silvery laugh broke the tension somewhat. “I need to write more songs, it seems,” she said. “I have heard some of the details, but it was never as easy to write when I was not present for events.”

Alim shook his head, smiling. It had seemed so much easier, during the blight, and he missed that certainty.

He didn’t miss much else about it, however.

“So. They want to control the child. Not kill it… I mean, him?”

“We were able to determine that much, yes.” 

Alim’s hands didn’t seem to be able to keep still. He had his gloves on — there was no way he was going to risk Leliana discovering _that_ particular secret. “I would have thought Morrigan would prefer a girl,” he said absently.

“In my experience you do not get much choice in that, dear warden,” Zev said.

“The Chantry is frightened of him,” Leliana continued. “They act out of ignorance. I will do my best to mitigate it, my friend, but in the end, we have taken different paths.” Alim lifted an eyebrow, and she smiled fondly. “You were never a great champion of the Chantry.”

“The Maker and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms,” Alim said. 

“He watches over you, regardless.”

“That’s not exactly comforting, Lelli.” Alim stood. “In any case, I think finding Morrigan will be the first step we need to take in stopping the endless waves of stab-happy assassins.”

“I would ask you not to tell me if you locate her, my friend,” Leliana said. “I am comfortable with some lies, but in this case, I would prefer not to have to use them.”

“You’re a good woman, Leliana,” Alim said, taking her hand and kissing it.

“Far better because you think before you try to be,” Zev said darkly, from behind him, but he inclined his head at their former companion, and Leliana gave him a wry smile.

“The world, and we, have changed,” she said. “We had common purpose for a time, though, and it was…” Leliana’s beautiful blue eyes widened in memory, and she nodded. “It was glorious, Alim. I will always thank you for that.”

Alim leaned forward and kissed both of her cheeks, and they descended into the square.

“Completely barking,” Alim muttered as they hit the heat of the streets. “Always said so.”

Zevran laughed.


	8. This is not warden business.

Anders nearly tripped over Pounce on the way out of his workroom, absently leaning down to scoop him up onto his shoulder again. The throne room was empty, which wasn’t exactly unusual at this time of day, Alim had never bothered to do any of his work there and the only time they’d really been there had been when he’d been holding court.

That had been something to see. Alim, tiny and elven and dark haired and supremely fed up, trying to deal with a pack of pissed off Ferelden nobility. Anders would be the first to admit he had no idea about politics, but King Alistair had even less, putting an elf mage in charge of an Arling, as if anyone would ever stand for such a thing.

Alim had made it work, of course. Alim could make anything work. Including blood magic. 

He winced, then, remembering what it had taken to drive his friend to use the knife. Justice had assured him that the demon was dead, but Anders had seen too many good mages corrupted to think that Alim would be able to last for long without accessing that kind of power again. It was good that the wardens were tainted. Good that they only had a few decades after the joining. Maybe that was why blood magic wasn’t forbidden among the wardens. The demons didn’t get time to get you, at least not before the taint.

His gut churned and he stopped for a moment, swallowing bile. The walls felt like they were closing in again — not uncommon when he was indoors — but it was getting worse and he had to acknowledge it. This stint at the Vigil was the longest he’d been in one place since the tower, and there were beginning to be far too many similarities for him to be comfortable any longer. Pounce rubbed against his cheek, purring madly and Anders breathed in the soft musk of his fur, tangling one hand in it and feeling the strong beat of the animal’s heart, his warmth, his concern.

“We’re all right, aren’t we, Pounce?” he said softly. “Everything’s going to work out.”

“There is a reason wardens do not generally form strong attachments outside the brotherhood, Warden Anders,” Caron said, from behind him. He’d not noticed her enter, which was lax of him. There had been a time when he’d been far more sensitive to people entering rooms from behind him. He was getting used to freedom. Going soft.

“Pounce is an excellent mouser, Commander,” Anders said lightly. “And he helps me with my potions. It’s not my fault he’s taken a shine to me as much as he has.”

“You encourage the beast,” Caron said, but there was gentleness behind it.

“There are precious few freedoms in the life of a warden,” Anders said. “I suppose I have to take them somewhere.”

A muscle worked in Caron’s jaw and she tutted. “I fear your previous Commander led you to believe that the life of a warden held more freedom than it truly does,” she said. “We have a duty, Anders. One that you cannot forget, even when there is no blight.”

“Believe me, I don’t forget it,” Anders said, trying so, so hard to keep the light tone. “There are deep roads right under us. You try forgetting the joining when the sing of the taint wakes you up whenever an Ogre likes to take a stroll under your floorboards.”

Caron looked troubled at that. “Darkspawn activity was meant to die down, after the Blight,” she said absently. “I understand that the Architect and the Mother have complicated things somewhat, but we would have expected it to be better by now.”

Pounce leapt down to the floor and twined himself between Caron’s boots, meowing. She looked down at him and raised an eyebrow. “He wants food,” Anders said. “I’ll take him to the kitchens, if you don’t mind, Commander.”

“You should entrust his care to one of the servants,” Caron said then. “It will be better for you both, in the long run.”

Anders shrugged. “I’ve never been that great at taking care of myself,” he said, scooping up Pounce and heading towards the kitchens. He’d have to find Jacques and Stroud later.

He only made it a few steps before there was an alarm at the gates. Anders stopped and looked at Caron, who was in full armour and didn’t hesitate, simply made towards the walls. Anders cursed and tried to put Pounce down but the cat sunk claws into his arms and refused to let go. He groaned. Pounce was too big for his pouch these days, and Anders had always meant to make him another, but time had been at a premium these last few weeks and he’d not gotten around to it. “Stay on my shoulders, you,” he said and stalked after Caron. Pounce could handle himself, and would usually run at the first sign of trouble.

Sigrun joined them as the went past the practice fields. “Nathaniel’s on the walls! He says bandits are chasing a group of refugees.”

“Are the gates open?” Anders asked, forgetting for a moment that he’d handed power over to Caron, forgetting that Caron and the Orlesians might have a different stance than Anders and Alim both had, to allow any who sought refuge safe haven at the Vigil. 

“Yes!” Sigrun shouted back.

“Close them!” Caron said as they reached the wards, gesturing to another warden who was racing towards them. “Close them at once.”

“Yes Commander.”

Anders looked sidelong at the woman. “You can’t leave them out there,” he said. “They’re refugees. When the bandits find they have nothing of value they’ll kill them.”

“We have archers on the wall,” Caron said, climbing up to the lookout as Anders and Sigrun followed. Then she cocked an eyebrow at him. “And mages. We can dispatch the bandits and let the refugees go free.”

“That’s not good enough!” Anders said. “They have nowhere to go. We get rid of those bandits and the next pack will finish them off!”

“This is not warden business, Anders,” Caron said.

“By the Maker it isn’t! They’re refugees from the damned _blight.”_

Pounce let out a sharp hiss and Anders stumbled to a halt, looking down at what had nearly tripped him. Jacques clutched at the pouches on Anders’ belt. “What’s _he_ doing here! Where’s Stroud?”

“Father is one of the archers on the walls, he sent me to the keep when we spotted the bandits.”

“I’m here, warden!” Stroud shouted, bow drawn, looking down at them both. “Can you…”

There was a shout from the road and Anders felt a tug from the fade. Pounce, sensitive to magic, hissed at Jacques, who stumbled backwards, confused, even as Pounce leapt down over the road and started to streak towards the bandits.

“POUNCE!” Anders yelled, lunging forward, but it was Jacques, terrified Jacques, who reacted first.

The forcefield was crude and childish, and no circle mage would ever mistake it for magic from someone with any training. Jacques had thrown up his hands, but he was out of sight of everyone save Anders and Stroud, and the tell tale blue light from a connection to the fade suffused his fingers even as he echoed Anders’ cry of the cat’s name. Pounce was stopped dead in his tracks, right before the bandits, but the backlash from the spell threw Anders and Caron backwards. Caron hit the balustrade with a thud and teetered, Anders barrelled into her, scrabbling on stone. He managed to grab her arm and stop her from falling, and they landed in an embarrassing tangle of limbs.

“Mage!” Caron said, and Anders thought she was shouting at Jacques for a moment before she shoved him off her and got to her feet. “That was a completely irresponsible use of magic! The animal is a distraction and needs to go!”

Anders glanced at Jacques, standing and looking down at his hands. Stroud stood directly behind him, looking at Anders with giant, frightened eyes, his hands on Jacques shoulders. Anders caught the older warden’s eyes and gave the smallest shake of his head.

“I’m sorry Commander,” Anders said. “I… I’m sorry I was distracted and angry and…”

“Take yourself back to the keep immediately. We’ll deal with this.”

“My son,” Stroud said, voice shaking a little. “Take him with you. We need to deal with the bandits and this is no place for him.” Anders nodded, holding out his hand to Jacques, who took it with a slight hesitation. It was a good idea for them to be touching — if Jacques started to spark more magic Anders would be able to cover it more effectively if they were in physical contact.

Pounce, the damned animal, met them in the courtyard and twined between Anders legs as though he’d done nothing wrong. Anders’ heart clenched.

“Ser,” Jacques started, trotting to keep up with Anders’ long strides. He’d lost the fight about the refugees, he realised as they walked. They’d be turned right back out and probably be killed or starve before they got five miles away from the vigil.

“Ser warden, please!”

The sounds of arrows loosing and shouts came from the walls and his heart was too big in his chest, thumping against his ribs like a hammer.

Jacques started to cry. Hiccuping sobs that he was trying to stop, and Anders realised he’d been half dragging the boy behind him in his haste to get back into the keep. 

He stopped and took a deep breath, then knelt in front of him and looked into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Jacques,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

The tears started in earnest then, and Anders couldn’t do anything except open his arms and let the boy cry out his fear against the cold metal plates of his warden tabard. The boy was small, far smaller than Anders had been, after the fire. Twelve years old and quailing, but standing tall in front of the anger of his father.

Anger that masked fear, Anders knew now, not that he ever tried to dwell on it, not that he ever let his flitting thoughts settle on the exact expression of his father’s face, not that he didn’t spend nights when he wasn’t dreaming about templars and rage demons and months of agonising solitude trying to expunge those eyes from his memory.

Jacques small body shook against his and Anders shut his eyes tight, burying his face in the boy’s hair just as he was pressed against Anders’ blue and silver chest. 

The warden robes marked him as theirs, just as much as any circle robes had. He’d just not seen the bars for what they were until this moment.

 _Maker help him,_ Anders thought. _Maker help all of us._


	9. The helmets drain brain capacity.

“I need Barkspawn,” Alim said.

Alistair had taken to wearing fur around his neck. Alim had to restrain himself from asking him if it was still alive. Otherwise he looked quite regal, really, if a little weary. He’d done something different with his hair as well.

“Nice to see you too, Hero of Ferelden,” Alistair said, glancing sideways at Bann Alfstanna, who gave a small smile and shook her head.

“I don’t really have a lot of time to chit chat, Alistair,” Alim said. “I’m off to find apostates and malificarum.”

“Well we’ve got plenty of those,” Alistair said, waving him into the council room that had been a lot like Alim’s second home in those short months when he’d been officially an advisor to the throne.

“How’s that working out for you?”

“They mostly keep to themselves, thank the Maker. The negative reports we get about mages tend to come from over enthusiastic templars, and nine times out of ten the “malificarum” they’ve captured turn out to be old ladies who know a good flu remedy. I employed one as a court apothecary. She’s fantastic.”

“The helmets drain brain capacity,” Alim said.

“Good thing I never wore mine for long then.”

“Can’t take away what was never there.”

Alistair gave a chuckle that was part sigh. “You know I’ve missed you, right, Alim? I could use a counsellor who had sight of the bigger picture. People have started to forget the blight ever happened and it’s only been what, a year?”

The palace at Denerim didn’t look much different from how Alim remembered it, but the reconstruction had gone well, and the greater town barely showed any signs of the blight any longer. Even the Alienage was looking the better for some concentrated attention, and Alim spared a moment to think of exactly how Shianni was doing before wincing at the memory that he _still_ hadn’t written to or attempted to contact his parents in Highever… 

Still, this was Denerim, this was the capital, this was the one place in all of Ferelden that wasn’t going to feel the lingering effects of the Blight and Alim knew that Alistair had to stay grounded in reality if he was going to be a good king. “The number of refugees I’m seeing on the road would indicate you’re being a little optimistic there, Alistair.”

“Well, I’m talking about nobles, naturally,” Alistair said, frowning. “Not real folk.”

“That’s the problem with being king,” Alim said. “You lose sight of the little people.”

“And the big people have loud voices and brightly coloured doublets. It’s very hard to ignore them.”

“You’ll do okay, Alistair,” Alim said. “And I’m afraid I’ve got more important things to do.”

“More important than helping me rule Ferelden?”

“Yes,” Alim said shortly. “It’s just a kingdom of dog lords and darkspawn, Alistair, no need to get uppity.”

“Now I’m beginning to remember why I _didn’t_ miss you.”

“Look can you just give me Barkspawn so I can get out of here? Zev’s waiting.”

Alistair frowned at him. Joke all he wanted about his friend’s intelligence, Alim knew the man was shrewder than he’d ever been given credit. Rumours had it that since Alim’s departure his reign had taken a turn for the worse, but Alim knew that wasn’t the case. Alistair presented as jovial and blundering, but farms in Ferelden were recovering from the Blight rapidly, mages and templars were getting on far better here than in any of the other nations, and he’d brokered a very interesting deal with King Bhelen of Orzammar that had been profitable for both. 

“Are you all right, Alim?” he asked. “Is there anything I can help you with, apart from dog theft, obviously.”

Alim slid his eyes away from Alistair’s gaze. “Barkspawn’s mine, it’s not stealing.”

Alistair heaved a sigh. “Fine. He’s in the kennels. So nice of you to drop by and remind me of my inadequacies, you should do it more often.”

“I’ll write you,” Alim said, smiling slightly.

“Marvellous.” Alistair waved a hand and Alim made his way to the kennels.

The Royal Kennels of Denerim were lavishly appointed and rapidly becoming well stocked with Barkspawn’s offspring. The animal in question was in the training yard with formally Sergeant Kylon of the Denerim city guard — ostensibly being trained. In reality Kylon was standing to one side watching his guardsman being savaged (gently of course, Barkspawn knew who was an enemy and who wasn’t) by the animal one by one, smiling his slight smile and occasionally shouting orders along the lines of “You’re all useless!”

He spotted Alim and stood a little straighter, giving him a nod of acknowledgement which was high praise from the man. “Captain,” Alim said.

“Warden,” Kylon replied. “Nice to see a competent face around here.” The Captain gave him a warm, solid handshake and indicated his men. “Care to spar with my men a while? They’re getting better. Slowly. And they haven’t come up against many mages, the practice would do them good.”

“I’m in a little bit of a hurry, I’m afraid, Captain. I need to collect Barkspawn for a mission.”

Kylon looked a little disappointed at that. “Warden business?”

“Something like that,” Alim replied. 

Kylon’s eyes bored into Alim’s for a moment, then he gave a small nod and raised his fingers to his mouth, letting out a piercing whistle.

Alim hadn’t thought much about Barkspawn in the past few months. The animal would have hated Weisshaupt — of that there was no doubt — the cold and the snow and the ever present darkspawn — not to mention the lack of lady mabari to keep him company. He would have hated Pounce too, and probably tried to eat bits of Justice when the fade spirit wasn’t looking. Still, he felt a little guilty for leaving him behind when the animal shot to him placing enormous (and slightly muddy) paws on his shoulders and licking his face with unbridled doggy enthusiasm.

“I’d say he missed you,” Kylon said dryly.

“I missed him too,” Alim said. Barkspawn delivered a large quantity of dogspit to Alim’s face by way of his tongue, big wet nose burying into the hollow of his collarbone.

“He’s been a valuable edition to the city guard,” Kylon said. “Pretty much the only one of my men who follows instructions properly.”

“I remember that tended to be the case during the Blight as well,” Alim said, smiling. Barkspawn sat down in front of him, tongue lolling out the corner of his mouth and let out a low whuff of breath. Now that the reuniting had finished, it seemed like the sulking would begin. 

“Pay him no mind, Warden,” Kylon said. “He had a fine time here, even if he did miss you, didn’t you boy?”

Barkspawn gave Kylon a sideways glance and gaped at him in a doggy grin, then wagged his tiny stump of a tail and nosed Alim in the hand. “Time to go,” Alim said. “You think you can help me out boy?”

Barkspawn whuffed again and trotted off towards the gates. “I’ll take my leave of you, Captain,” Alim said.

“Take care, Warden,” Kylon said. “Blight may be over, but there’s more out there than just darkspawn.”

“Don’t I know it."


	10. I have a friend who can look after him.

Anders paced the small confines of his workroom while Jacques sat in on a bench well away from the lyrium and herbal stores, sniffing occasionally and watching him with large eyes. 

He was profoundly grateful that Jacque’s first spell had been one of protection rather than destruction. There was no burning barn for him to attempt to explain away, no angry, vengeful father or weeping mother.

Perhaps there needn’t be the heavy tread of a templar foot, either.

Nearly every class at the tower had begun with careful instruction on how to suppress magic when it surfaced unwittingly — ironic, Anders sometimes thought — that the circle taught them the one skill they needed most to survive as an apostate. The fear that a mage would actually use magic outweighed their belief that a mage would have the will and spirit to escape the circle and use those skills to never come back.

Anders was very good at hiding his power. His downfall had always been the need to use it. Magic had never frightened him, and he’d never felt cursed the way some in the tower had been taught to believe. Despite the fire in the barn, despite his losses, his power had always been a part of him that he wished he could celebrate and not repress, and there had been another part of him that thought and whispered whenever he felt the thrill of touching the fade, whenever his blood sang with power and his hands tingled —  if only people could _see_ if only people could _experience_ how wonderful it was, what things you could accomplish, then they would stop being afraid.

Sometimes they did. Sometimes. But more often his naivety had ended with chains and a trip back to the circle.

Maybe if he’d been more afraid of his power he wouldn’t be trapped here now.

Jacques had babbled at him, when they’d first gotten inside, asking what had happened, why he felt so strange, and Anders had taken both the boy’s hands and explained as best he could.

“I have to go to the tower?” Jacques asked. “I have to leave papa?”

Anders shook his head. “No,” he said. “No you don’t. There are mages in the wardens, I’m one, we can train you without templars, but it’s important that you don’t let anyone _else_ know you’re a mage, they don’t feel the same way about it as we do.”

“I have to keep it a secret.”

Anders breathed a sigh of relief that _that_ concept didn’t seem to confuse the boy. “Yes,” he said. “And I’m going to teach you how, if you’re ready to learn?”

Jacques nodded, and Anders began on the first and simplest of the suppression exercises.

By the time Stroud reached them Anders was confident Jacques wouldn’t pull a stunt like the one on the wall again, but there was a lot left to teach him. 

“Jacques?” Stroud said, hesitantly, standing in the doorway. Jacques looked up and gave his father a brilliant smile, running into his arms. Stroud, carefully embraced him, looking at Anders. “I love you, boy. Go back to our room. Papa will come to you after he has spoken to Anders.”

“He helped me,” Jacques said.

“I know.” Jacques turned back and gave Anders a perfect, miniature, courtly bow which almost made Anders smile, before scooting out.

“He should be fine,” Anders said, surprised that his own voice was steady. “He won’t… he probably won’t do anything like that by accident again. I’ve explained that he needs to keep it a secret but you’ll want to emphasise that.” _Every damned minute of every damned day._

“The others on the wall believe you cast the spell,” Stroud said. “I have done nothing to disabuse them of the notion.”

Anders nodded. “Don’t.”

“I am not certain,” Stroud said, “that is the best course of action. You protected my son and for that I am grateful, Anders, but there will be consequences that you may not…”

Anders heart sped up. “Pounce…”

“Commander Caron wishes the animal destroyed,” Stroud said. “I managed to convince her that you could move him to the city, far enough away from the keep that he will not be a distraction.”

A tiny ball of fur, mewling at him, climbing the curtains in Alim’s study, tucked against his neck as he walked. A hissing ball of fury, batting at a genlock who had dared to attack them in the deep roads.

Mr Wiggums, a rage demon melting the armour of templars like it was butter, the last route to freedom from the tower Anders had ever taken. “I have a friend there who can look after him,” Anders said.

“And Caron wishes to assign you a new… partner. For your warden work.”

_Here it comes._

“She has sent to Orlais for a man named Roland. Recently made a warden. He is — he _was_ a templar.”

“Recently made a warden, eh?” Anders said. “I wonder when that happened.” Probably just after a certain letter was sent to, and ignored by, the Warden Commander. Anders could imagine the Divine, or the Grand Cleric, or the Knight Commander with a long line of templars all waiting in front of the joining cup to be recruited. Anders was mean enough to hope some of them died in the joining. A lot of them, hopefully.

He hated the deep roads enough already. The thought of having to face darkspawn _and_ have a templar at his back was enough to make him want to scream and flail. This wasn’t freedom. This wasn’t what Alim had promised him. This wasn’t what he was meant for it wasn’t right and it wasn’t _fair._

“Anders you took a great risk to stop my son from being taken and I owe you,” Stroud said. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“No,” Anders turned away and buried his hands in Pounce’s fur. He was going to have to take him to Aura. He’d ask Justice to come with them. Justice said that Aura was lonely, and missed Kristoff, Pounce would sense that loss and be kind to her. 

Pounce was good at keeping loneliness at bay. “I did what any decent mage would have done in my place, Stroud. No child should be taken to the circle when he has a parent who cares about him enough not to toss him out as soon as his magic manifests. You’re a warden, you’ve seen more magic than most. I can train him, keep him safe. It was a bargain worth making.”

He had to keep telling himself that because if he didn’t it might not be true.

“I am sorry, Anders.”

“So am I.” 


End file.
